


Butterfly

by Savva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Humor, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:37:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savva/pseuds/Savva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was his butterfly, his unexpected present from the future, and he wasn’t going to let her go. Ever…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June 1999

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my alpha Quilter for her help and support. She is brilliant. Thank you to my beta Dany. You guys rock!
> 
> Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

_~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~_

**_Butterfly_ **

_It's a new dawn_

_It's a new day_

_It's a new life_

_For me..._

_And I'm feeling good*_

 

**1\. June 1999**

****

**_A Little Café in Diagon Alley_ **

****

Even though it was somewhere around lunchtime, the fairly new café wasn’t especially crowded. It was, in fact, almost empty. Only three of its tables were occupied, with two young witches seated at one of them. One of them, a girl whose long, fiery red locks added a much-needed bright spot to the café, which was warmly decorated in subtle brown and terracotta, talked incessantly to her friend, who, by contrast, was mostly quiet and seemed somewhat despondent.

 

“So, is this it? Are you finally done with him?” asked Ginny, focusing her hazelnut eyes on her friend intently.

 

Hermione drew a heavy sigh and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

“Aaannnddd,” enunciated the redhead. “You did want it, right?”

 

“Aha.”

 

“Then why are you so blue all of a sudden? Blimey, Hermione, I just don’t get you sometimes.”

 

“It’s just … it’s difficult, you know. We’d been through so much together. We won the war together. We lost so many, Gin. It’s … it’s the end of an era for me,” muttered the witch melancholically.

 

“Listen, stop torturing yourself. You both tried, and it didn’t work. He is my brother, I know him. He doesn’t hold a grudge for long: you’ll still be friends, you’ll see, just not lovers. Harry and I are still friends,” babbled Ginny in one breath. “Are you going to finish this?” she added after her lungs got enough oxygen to continue. Not waiting for an answer, she swallowed the last of Hermione’s Butterbeer in one gulp.

 

“Aha,” muttered the curly-haired witch, again not specifying what exactly she was agreeing with. She took a last bite of her pastry and began to chew. Absentmindedly, she kept pushing the leftover crumbs around the saucer with her fingernail. She was an epitome of gloom, her shoulders slumped and her eyes teary.

 

Ginny slammed an empty Butterbeer bottle on the table, shook her head, and let out an exasperated humph. “Oh, for broomstick’s sake, what are you moping around for, girl? Think about it: you are young, smart, sexy and free. You can do whatever you want. You can, I dunno, get drunk and take one of them home, for instance,” and Ginny nodded toward four young and rather good-looking wizards who occupied the table in the far left corner. “Or, maybe, even more than one,” she added, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

 

Hermione abruptly snapped out of her melancholy, and, with a blush already blooming on her cheeks, hissed, “Ginny, are you mad? Keep your voice down, will you!” Though, the next second, she snorted and giggled.

 

“Why? I am a modern witch!” said Ginny, batting her eyelashes in mock innocence.

 

“Naughty is more like it,” snickered Hermione at her friend’s antics, clearly feeling at least a touch better.

 

Suddenly, Ginny’s eyes became wide and she whispered, “Oops,” staring somewhere over Hermione’s head. Following the direction of her gaze, Hermione turned her head and froze. To her horror, it was obvious that Ginny’s words had reached the wizards, because she was met with four pairs of smouldering eyes. The wizards were enthusiastically winking and flashing their crooked smiles at them.

 

“Oops, indeed!” she muttered. “I think we need to go. Now!”

 

Struggling to keep their giggles under control, the witches hastily stood up, threw a few coins on the table, and left, not responding to wolf-whistles from the men. Once outside and unable to contain themselves any longer, they laughed out loud, startling the passers-by. “I can’t believe, you said that, Ginny!” mumbled Hermione breathlessly.

 

“Ha-ha, I know. Did you see their eyes? They were definitely ready to go with us anywhere. Phew.” The redhead drew a calming breath. “Come on, let’s go and do something crazy,” she said, tugging her friend down the street.

 

“Define crazy, Ginny.” Hermione’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as she dragged her feet in a futile attempt to stop her over-determined friend.

 

“I haven’t got any idea yet. We can go Hippogriff-riding, or to a karaoke bar, or we can get ourselves tattoos and insanely short haircuts. We’ll see.” Ginny took in Hermione’s suspicious demeanour and added, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Hermione, you're supposed to be the brave one!”

 

“Why do I have a nagging feeling that I am going to regret this?” muttered the curly-haired witch. “Ah, sod it! Let’s go!”

 

The next morning, Hermione woke up in her tiny flat, which she had rented a month ago, with a radically short bob, a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, and, fortunately, no recollection of karaoke or Hippogriff-riding: though a slight headache was present, probably due to a hangover.

 

**_Charity Ball at Malfoy Manor_ **

****

Five days later, Hermione stood in front of her bedroom mirror and stared apathetically at her reflection. In an hour, she was expected at the Charity Ball at Malfoy Manor. Her dress lay on her bed, and her high-heeled, strapped sandals stood on the floor near the mirror, waiting for her. And yet she had still to find enough will-power to get dressed.

 

She knew that she had to attend the Ball. It was organized with a great cause in mind – all the donations would go to the War Orphans fund. Narcissa and Andromeda, who had reconnected after the war, had organised it, with Hermione’s help, of course. Moreover, it had been her idea to begin with. However, the thought that today she would be the only member of the Golden Trio present, dispirited her greatly. Harry simply couldn’t leave the Academy. And Ron had cancelled at the last moment, evidently still slightly peeved about their recent break-up.

 

Hermione sighed. So much had changed since the war. Nominally, they  _were_  friends. However, in the course of the last year, life had pushed and pulled them all in different directions. Harry had entered the Auror program, just as he wanted. Ron, on the other hand, had changed his mind and decided to work with George in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. As for Hermione, she, as expected, had obtained her N.E.W.T.s, and was now due to start her career at the Ministry. The two romances that had budded during the war hadn’t withstood the routine of peaceful life. Ginny and Harry had been first to call it quits, and, after numerous rows and a long, torturous talk, Hermione and Ron had gone their own ways as well. 

 

Hermione’s gaze slid over her reflection and focused on her newly acquired tattoo. The delicate butterfly that was now inked into her right shoulder would forever greet her with a slight fluttering of its fuchsia-coloured wings. The witch scoffed and shook her head. She still couldn’t believe that she had done that; it was so unlike her. The fact that she had also chopped off her curls that day only confirmed that she had gone utterly mad.

 

Even so, Hermione couldn’t deny that her fuchsia butterfly and her haircut looked nice together, very contemporary, so to speak. Plus, miraculously, the off-shoulder dress that she had bought specifically for the various public events which she now quite regularly attended, was sewn from bright, magenta silk georgette, and thus matched perfectly.

 

“All right, enough brooding, time to get dressed,” she muttered to herself, and sprinted to the shower. Twenty minutes later, freshly buffed, bathed, and moisturised, with her face glowing and body glistening and scented with verbena, she emerged from the bathroom. She quickly threw on barely-there pink thongs, the dress, and sandals. Her curls, now shoulder-length, coiled freely around her face. Frankly, it was much easier to manage them now, and much quicker too.  _Oh, the perks of having short hair_ , she chuckled to herself _._

Fully clothed, she span in front of the mirror one last time and, with a satisfied hum, walked to her toilet table, where she picked up her wand and tucked it into a special pocket, hidden in the fluid, silken folds of her sweeping skirt. Next, she opened her invitation-Portkey and disappeared with a swish in a bright magenta swirl.

 

After a few seconds of twirling in shimmering lucidity, she reappeared in Wiltshire. Carefully putting her invitation in the pocket, she glanced around. The Manor met her with a garden in full bloom and a gravelled pathway that wasn’t at all kind to her stiletto heels. At first, she honestly tried to march down the lane, ignoring the small stones that determinedly assaulted her beloved Muggle sandals. But, after about ten steps, she took off the sandals and moved to the plush, freshly cut grass. “There, much better,” she muttered.

 

It surprised her that from the point of her landing she couldn’t even see the house, as it was hidden behind cherry trees, though she could hear the music and muffled voices. Why on Earth the Portkey hadn’t brought her right to the grand entrance was beyond her.  _Probably it was supposed to be a pleasant stroll through the orchard or some other nonsense_ , she grumbled to herself, sprinting briskly towards the sounds. Soon, however, the feel of the warm, soft grass under her bare feet and the pinkish, blushing cherry blossoms around her soothed her unsettled mood. The witch slowed her pace and walked in a leisurely way, enjoying the beauty that surrounded her.

 

She could already distinguish the marble pillars of the Manor peering through the greenery, when she noticed a white, ornamented gazebo situated among the trees. She stopped, observing it with interest and contemplating the possibility of checking what was inside it. The light, airy structure, which was covered with scarlet rose-vines, looked wickedly inviting. She made an uncertain step toward it, and the air around her all of a sudden became still. The sounds of the Ball at the Manor faded, birds stopped singing, and an eerie silence cocooned the surroundings. She felt a sudden, wary feeling get a hold of her heart. And yet the white gazebo was calling her, luring her to it. Keeping her wand at the ready in one hand and her shoes in the other, the witch walked closer. 

 

On the steps, she paused, though only for a second. Curiosity won over common sense quite quickly, and the witch stepped inside the gazebo, where, on the elegant mahogany table, stood a lacquered box. The moment her feet touched the floor, the box, as if it had been waiting for her, opened. Cautiously, she peeked into it and released the breath she was holding with relief. It was just a Time-Turner: an old Time-Turner, finely crafted in gold, with an elaborately designed letter ‘M’ engraved on it.

 

Tucking her wand in her pocket, Hermione carefully picked up the device from the box. “What are you doing here, beauty?” she said thoughtfully, caressing it with her fingertips. As if in answer, the Time-Turner began to rotate, increasing its speed with every passing moment. The horrified witch only managed to shout, “Oh, no, stop!” before everything around her began to spin as well. Somewhere during that wild spinning, she lost her footing, stumbled down the two steps, and knocked her head on the sharp corner of the stairs. After that, everything went black.

 

When an unknown amount of time had passed and she had managed to tear her eyes open, she saw an angel that looked at her with concerned grey eyes. 

 

 

Chapter End Notes:

 

**_*Feelin' Good/_ ** [ **_Anthony Newley_ ** ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_Newley) **_ & _ ** [ **_Leslie Bricusse_ ** ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_Bricusse)


	2. June 1926

**2.1 June 1926**

**_Lady in Pink_ **

When Wrinkly, a Manor elf, opened the drapery and let the bright sunrays rush into Abraxas' chamber, nothing suggested that the day would be out of the ordinary. And the ordinary was just what the young wizard was used to. After all, that was how he had been brought up.

As a Malfoy, he had known that all his life had been planned for him since he was five years of age. His parents knew what school he'd go to, what house he'd be sorted into, and what kind of girl he'd eventually marry. It was not that Abraxas enjoyed having such a predictable future – he didn't. However, he had been taught the necessity to correlate his desires constantly with the fact that he was the Malfoy heir. And he had been doing exactly that for his whole life. Oh well, to be fair, minus its first five years, perhaps.

Of course, over time, some adjustments had been made. When Abraxas was fifteen, and it had been determined that he was quite proficient in Potions, his parents had been surprised. Nevertheless, a laboratory had been built on the lower level of the Manor, and a direct access from his chamber had been added, in order to keep their beloved boy happy. Of course, as he got older, and his parents trusted his judgment more, he had earned more freedom and had been allowed to make his own choices more often.

When he graduated from Hogwarts, he was given free rein for a few years, which he was using to learn more about Potions, the history of magic, and so on. At twenty-five, however, he was expected to take his place beside his father, to learn how to play politics and make money.

For now, though, still only twenty-two, Abraxas celebrated his temporary freedom by doing the things he loved and avoiding the opposite. During the last five years, for instance, he had not taken part in the habitual three months' family holidays by the Mediterranean. He simply hated the beach and much preferred to stay in Wiltshire. He loved his summers alone at the Manor. As almost all the help travelled with Lady Malfoy, the house was virtually empty. Only the wizard himself, his trusted elf Wrinkly, who was only about ten years older than his young master, and their kitchen-elf Dotty, stayed in the Manor. Hence, it was serenely peaceful and quiet. And, maybe, just a wee bit lonely, since all Abraxas' friends still spent their summers on the Adriatic.

His self-imposed solitude didn't bother him much, though; he could freely work in the lab, ride his favourite stallion, and read. Besides, he had more than enough society during the ball-season from September to May. He didn't hate social functions, not at all; he just found them tiresome, sometimes.

So, today, the wizard started his morning as usual, with his toilet and breakfast. Then he spent a few hours or so in his laboratory, experimenting with different ingredients and potions. It was well after lunchtime when he reappeared in his chamber, where Wrinkly was already waiting for him with a tray of food. Abraxas finished his meal quickly, as he was hungry after intense brewing for half the day, and went on his regular walk to the cherry orchard.

The day was warm and quiet. A soft summer breeze caressed delicate flowers, saturating the air with a tantalising scent of cherry blossoms. He walked down the gravelled pathway, breathing deeply and letting the fragrant air fill his lungs. Each time the wizard put his riding boot on the ground, the gravel responded with a soft crunching sound, startling hummingbirds, butterflies, and crickets. An afternoon heat mercilessly unleashed its full force on the young Malfoy, forcing him to unbutton his white batiste shirt right down to the waist, where it was tucked neatly into his fine linen breeches, giving the breeze an opportunity to play with a patch of short, blond curls on his chest.

Abraxas' destination was a gazebo that stood in the middle of the garden. His old Nana had used to read him books in there; it had been their secret place. Alas, she had died of old age long ago, when he was only thirteen. It was the only time he had seen his mother crying, and that was the year he had his first encounter with Thestrals. Now, although an adult, Abraxas still loved the place.

When he was close enough to see the outlines of the wooden structure, he noticed an odd object lying on the ground near it. Curious, he sped up and took a shortcut, quickly covering the distance between himself and the object silhouetted on the meadow. As he got closer, he suddenly realised that it wasn't an object – it was a person, and he could already discern the contours of a woman's body.

Finally, when he was a mere foot from the gazebo, the picture that met his eyes alarmed and startled him. There, on the grass, in the middle of the heavily-warded Malfoy grounds lay a stranger: a young girl, to be exact. She was alive: the wizard could clearly see that her breasts, which were covered with pink silk, were heaving rhythmically. With two last strides, Abraxas knelt near her and gently pressed two fingers to the pulse point under her chin. Her heart was beating steadily, and yet she was unconscious. Hurriedly, the wizard pulled out his wand and frantically ran a few diagnostic spells over her that he had learned from their family healer. "Hmm," he breathed, perplexed that he couldn't detect anything wrong.

Leaning back, he sat on his heels and looked at the girl in front of him thoughtfully. Before trying to revive her, he decided to pause and observe her first. He wanted to know beforehand exactly what he was dealing with. One thing became obvious instantly – the mysterious visitor looked too different to be from somewhere around. In fact, her dress looked extremely out of fashion.  _Or maybe,_  it bolted through the wizard's mind,  _yet not in fashion_. The pair of shoes that rested near her on the steps of the gazebo supported his guess. Abraxas had never seen such a level of craftsmanship implemented in women's shoes.  _Interesting._

The girl herself, however, was more than just a little bit intriguing. He found her fascinating. The first thing he noticed was her bare feet, which were rather narrow and small –  _the certain sign of gentility_ , he told himself. Her toenails, to his astonishment, were painted a dark Bordeaux colour. With difficulty, he managed to drag his eyes from her toes. Sure enough, the sight of her slightly shimmering, bare shoulders and a glimpse of cleavage, covered by semi-sheer fabric, quickly beguiled him as well. And, naturally, the butterfly on her shoulder just finished him off.  _How_   _strikingly exotic_ , thought the wizard. _The Lestranges would die from envy if they saw me with such an exquisite beauty._  He found the fact that the girl had an imprinted mark on her body mysterious and exceedingly arousing. A very distinctive stirring in his neither region confirmed that only too clearly.

"Nonsense!" muttered Abraxas in an embarrassed whisper. "Behave like a gentleman, like a Malfoy," he told himself, mimicking his father's voice. With that, he drew a sigh and returned to his observation. Belatedly, he noticed a wand clenched in her right hand. "Hmm, a witch. But of course!" he muttered. At this point, he decided that he knew enough for a start. So he switched back to his knees, shifted closer to the girl's face, and, after a long glance at her slightly-opened mauve lips and dishevelled, mahogany curls, whispered, " _Rennervate."_

He hadn't even managed to blink, when he felt the sharp point of a wand pressed firmly under his chin. "Who are you?" hissed the girl, keeping her unwavering wand at his pulse point and her chocolate eyes locked on him.

"Abraxas Malfoy, at your service. And you are?"

The girl opened her mouth to answer. "I am -" She abruptly stopped, her eyes clouded with confusion, and muttered, "I … I don't know. I can't remember." She groaned and clutched her head. Her face lost its colour, her wand began to shake in her hand, and, a heartbeat later, she lost consciousness again.

The wizard cursed under his breath, picked up her limp body from the ground, and Apparated to the Manor. Once at home, he called for Wrinkly, who appeared instantly with a happy pop. For a moment, the creature, clearly surprised by the sight, scrutinised his master, all the while thoughtfully twisting his ear. "Master calls Wrinkly? Master needs help with Missy?" he asked sympathetically.

"No, Wrinkly, I don't need help. Go to the gazebo and search the grounds. Bring everything you find," Abraxas instructed the elf. Nodding enthusiastically, Wrinkly popped away, and the young wizard continued with the girl, who was still unconscious, to one of the guest chambers. Surely only for simplicity's sake, he chose the room nearest to his own chamber. He pushed the door open, and walked into the nicely-appointed room. As he wasn't in a rush to part with the soft, curvy body in his arms, he stopped in the middle of the room and took in his surroundings. He had never been in that room before, and he was pleasantly surprised by its decor. The walls were adorned with lavender silk with tiny periwinkle flowers on it. A huge portrait, which was empty at the moment, hung right across the room, looking at the garden window. "Hmm, nice," he muttered. His perusal of the room was interrupted by a soft pop, signalling Wrinkly's return. The wizard's pale face coloured with just a shadow of pink, and he hurriedly eased the slight body on to a bed which was covered with silk.

"These are all, Master," squeaked the elf, placing a few objects on the vanity. The wizard, whose eyes were caressing the girl's soft form, snapped out of it and came closer, in order to examine what Wrinkly had found. The shoes, beautiful as they were, he had already seen, so they didn't catch his attention this time. The next thing, however, did surprise him quite a bit, because he knew precisely what it was. It was his father's Time-Turner, he was indubitably sure. The situation was becoming stranger by the minute. The last thing that Wrinkly had found was a little card. Abraxas opened it and read:

_Dear Hermione,_

_We are very pleased to know that you have accepted our invitation to a Charity Ball at Malfoy Manor. This note is a Portkey, which will be activated today at four o'clock in the afternoon._

_We are looking forward to seeing you later tonight._

_Respectfully,_

_Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy_

_June 10, 1999_

"Seventy-three years," muttered the dumbstruck wizard. "No wonder she is still unconscious. It was quite a trip." With that, his grey eyes returned to the girl on the bed once again, and he sat on the edge of the bed, smiled, and gently traced her bare shoulder with his fingertips. "Hermione," whispered the wizard, "such a lovely name."

At that moment, the young Malfoy still didn't know much about the mysterious witch. And yet he knew quite enough to feel content: she was from the future; she was gorgeous; and she was obviously welcome at Malfoy Manor in nineteen ninety-nine. So who was he to argue with his descendants – it would be his pleasure to make this little butterfly from the future welcome in his time as well.

A light stirring on the bed drew his attention. The girl had opened her eyes and was now watching him with suspicion. "Hello, Hermione. Welcome to Malfoy Manor." Abraxas flashed his best smile at her, and was tremendously pleased to see the girl's lips curling up just the slightest bit.  _There, that's a start,_  he thought. He had so many questions for her. Alas, after a short conversation, it became clear that Hermione had somehow lost her memory. She thus couldn't answer any of his questions. Moreover, she had quite a few of her own. For instance, she had no idea how she had ended up with the Malfoys' Time-Turner, and she couldn't recall anything about herself or the time she had come from.

All these uncertainties unsettled the poor witch's still frail state of mind, and she began to hyperventilate. Concerned about her health, Abraxas managed to coax her into drinking a Calming Draught, and, after a few uneasy minutes, she fell asleep. For the rest of the day, he couldn't stop thinking about her. He kept checking on her every hour or so, and, after he had dinner, he decided to call it a day as well, though not before he checked on his mysterious butterfly one last time. He covered her slumbering form with a cashmere throw, placed a pair of his batiste shirts and a few of his mother's summer robes for her to choose from in the morning on the edge of the bed, and left. He did indeed look forward to the morning.

**_Please review, my darlings._ **


	3. 2.2 June 1926

**2.2 June 1926**

**_Perquisites of Unexpected_ **

The next morning, after his bath, Abraxas went to check on his guest and found the room empty. Panic instantly clasped his heart painfully in its clammy fist and let go of him only when he heard the sound of running water from the bathroom. He sank into the armchair in the corner of the room and drew a sigh of relief – he didn't want Hermione to disappear. Somehow, even though it had been less then twenty-four hours since she had burst into his life, he enjoyed her presence in it. He felt like a little boy who found a treasure, and, naturally, he didn't want to part with it. No matter how infantile it might sound, ' _finders keepers'_  was the exact phrase that the young Malfoy had embedded in his stubborn head at that moment.

Abraxas' eyes slid over the magenta dress, which had been carelessly tossed across the bed, and noticed that one of his shirts had been taken. His mother's robes, however, were untouched. The sight of the unmade bed brought back the recollection of Hermione's soft body and how nice it had felt to have her in his arms. The image of the little butterfly on her shoulder and the gentle heaving of her breast came to mind as well.

"She is gorgeous, isn't she?" A soft voice startled the wizard, and he whirled around to see who was talking to him. A young, blonde witch, who was sitting in the portrait on the wall, smiled at him. The wizard narrowed his grey eyes and regarded the portrait with wariness. The witch's facial features clearly indicated that she was of the Malfoy line, and yet Abraxas couldn't recognise her.

"Who are you?" he exclaimed, his state of surprise slightly affecting his sense of courtesy.

The witch in the portrait chuckled and answered, "Luciana, the daughter of Brutus Malfoy and your great-great-aunt, dear."

"Oh, nice to meet you." The young Malfoy bowed lightly in acknowledgment. "Hmm, how very peculiar. I wonder, why haven't I seen your name on the family tree? I was taught that Brutus Malfoy had only one child – a son. I also know that the last girl in the Malfoy family was Amanda Malfoy, the daughter of Nicholas. The Malfoys haven't borne a girl in centuries, if I recall correctly."

The woman in the portrait sighed and answered with a wistful smile, "It's not my place to tell you  _why_ , my darling. You will have to ask your father about it." She sighed once again and then continued, watching him probingly. "Mark my word, my dear nephew, your mysterious little witch is a Muggle-born. You do like her, don't you? Oh, I cannot blame you. She is a scrumptious little morsel. My brother, if he were still around, would be all over her."

Abraxas furrowed his brows and rebuked her sharply. "No! You don't know what you are saying. She cannot be that." His great-great-aunt's words angered him. He personally could never see or feel any difference between Muggle-Borns and pure-bloods. If anything, he would have said that Muggle-Borns were often wittier and more interesting, especially the witches. That said, he had been taught to stay away from them: they weren't considered right for a Malfoy heir. But Hermione … surely she was worthy of him.

"Why do you think she is a Muggle-Born? How -" He wanted to ask more, but, at that moment, he heard the sound of bare feet tapping over the marble floor and saw the intricately-wrought handle of the bathroom door began to turn. That minuscule motion effectively silenced him and the witch in the portrait. He hastily sprang up and focused his attention on the door.

The door flew open, and his throat went dry. Hermione stood on the threshold, wearing only his white shirt that just barely reached her mid-thighs. Her wet locks curled freely around her face, which glowed with freshness. Abraxas' heart stopped for an instant and then restarted its frantic pumping, not quite in his chest. It seemed to him that the fine batiste of his shirt and the morning sun had joined in a single goal – to drive him mad. He could see everything: the delicate curve of her waist, the soft roundness of her hips, the forbidden slope between her thighs - literally everything. At first, he even suspected that the witch was purposely teasing him. However, when he caught her startled expression, he knew that it wasn't the case. Hermione hadn't expected him to be in her room, and she was clearly unaware of what her ensemble was doing to him.

_Merlin, help me,_ thought the wizard, and bowed to greet his lady. "Good morning, Hermione. How are you?"

The witch blushed a pretty pink colour and replied, "I don't really know. I am perfectly fine physically, and the only problem is that I cannot recall anything that happened before you found me. I gathered from the invitation that my name is Hermione, and it feels right, so that must be it. I remember spells and charms. I can tell you right now how to brew a Polyjuice Potion, and yet I cannot recall where I learned it."

"It is very strange indeed," remarked Abraxas, and came closer to the witch. "Do you remember my name?"

"Yes. Abraxas Malfoy: is that right?"

"Precisely," and the wizard nodded and smiled. He liked how she pronounced his name.

"Could you, please, tell me what year it is now?" Hermione asked, watching him with wary eyes.

"Nineteen twenty-six, my lady."

"Merlin, if only I could remember! What happened to the Time-Turner that brought me here? Did you examine it? Was it cursed?"

"I put it back where it belongs, inside my father's desk. Yes, I did examine it, and no, I didn't succeed in detecting anything unusual."

Hermione sighed, "I don't understand. Why am I here? Do you think it's possible for me to return …" She glanced at him with a tiny spark of hope shimmering in her velvet gaze. "… to go back?"

The wizard scowled and shook his head, "I am not quite sure, Hermione. I have never heard of someone traveling to the future. I gather that, first, you have to regain your memories, at least."

The young witch fell silent for a while, keeping her eyes fixed on an elaborate ornament of the woollen rug under her feet. Her wet curls hid her face, and Abraxas could only hear her faint sniffles. Feeling uneasy and not quite knowing how to help, he made a hesitant step toward the witch. She looked at him and smiled through her tears. "Oh well." She shrugged her shoulders. "We will take one day at a time, then. I know that amnesia shouldn't last long, and, eventually, I shall remember everything. And thank you for sheltering me, meanwhile."

Abraxas had no idea what exactly the term " _amnesia_ " meant, but decided against asking. He didn't want to seem shallow or dim-witted. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Hermione," he drawled in a low baritone, gazing intently at Hermione's chocolate eyes. Even though the witch's pretty cheeks blossomed with a soft rose-colour once again, she held his gaze bravely, keeping her pointy little chin high.

_Quite a character, this little one,_ scoffed the wizard.

"Oh, I forgot. I wanted to ask if you have a spare pair of trousers I can wear? I am not really fond of robes. Sorry."

The wizard's eyes widened in shock at that.  _Though,_  he scolded himself,  _I know nothing about the future and thus shouldn't be surprised._ "Certainly, certainly. Wrinkly!" Abraxas called his elf.

Wrinkly brought a few new pairs of Abraxas' breeches, and the wizard politely stepped out of the guest chamber and waited for her in the corridor. A short while later, she walked out of her room, still wearing the same shirt, though now his breeches completed the ensemble. Both garments had been charmed to fit her slight frame, and Abraxas had to admit that they looked sinfully attractive on her. The wizard gallantly offered the blushing girl his hand and escorted her to the dining room, where their breakfast was waiting for them.

The moment they walked into the grand hall, the young woman froze and drew a shaken breath. "I have an odd feeling that I have been here before," she said, looking around with apprehension. "My heart is throbbing for some reason, and I have no bloody idea why. Agh, it's so frustrating!"

Abraxas couldn't help noticing how unconventional her speech was.  _Could his great great-aunt be right?_  bolted through his mind.  _Maybe it's just a sign of a different time,_ he tried to convince himself. He had rarely, if ever, heard pure-blood witches talk so freely. They all were about etiquette and protocol. He shuddered at the recollection. He disliked those doll-like creatures, who lacked any vitality at all. He appreciated a bit more liveliness and definitely a lot more wit, probably because of his mother. Yes, she was from an old, pure-blood family as well. However, she was _French_ , and thus she could safely allow herself a degree of eccentricity. In her case, it was considered charming.

_Could she be a Muggle-Born?_ The young Malfoy locked his grey gaze on the witch's face, watching for clues. Alas, she chose to part her lips at that precise moment. The sight of her pearly white teeth and her pink tongue that darted to wet her lips nipped all his doubts in the bud.

"Shh," he murmured softly, shifting closer to her. "You just said it yourself – one day at a time." He gently squeezed Hermione's fist, savouring the warmth and softness of her skin, and proposed: "We shall have our breakfast now, and then we shall check our family library for any records about time travel and, as you called it,  _amnesia_." At the word ' _library_ ', Hermione's face suddenly lit up and her brown eyes sparkled brilliantly. She nodded enthusiastically and gave Abraxas the most sincere and bright smile, leaving the young wizard with a peculiar fussy feeling tickling somewhere in his chest.

The next seven days were spent in intense research. Tons of books were painstakingly studied, and yet they found no records of any travel to the future. At least, to Abraxas' delight, they spent those long hours together – talking, even debating at times. He showed her his laboratory, and Hermione turned out to be quite proficient in Potions. With every passing day, his fascination with her grew. She was truly nothing less than amazing. She knew tons of things, and was very talkative. Abraxas, who didn't actually talk much, found it exceptionally appealing. He was completely swept off his feet by this slip of a girl, by his little butterfly: that was how he called her in his thoughts.

By the end of the week, he knew for certain that she was taken with him as well. He could feel it. All those little smiles, blushes, and unrequired touches confirmed his belief, as well as their traitorous bodies that refused to comply and stood far too close for comfort, hairs that tended somehow to reach up and tickle, eyes that wondered and lingered on places they shouldn't: all those little signs pointed in one direction – they were both simmering in the same cauldron of unresolved sexual tension.

On the eighth day, during breakfast, while his gaze subtly caressed Hermione's face, Abraxas noticed the dark shadows under her eyes. A sudden revelation dawned on him: they hadn't been outside the Manor in a week.

"We ought to go out today," he remarked casually, spreading marmalade over a slice of toast before passing it to Hermione. She arched her eyebrows quizzically. "We haven't been outside since the day I found you. We both need fresh air."

"Sure," replied the witch. "Is there anything interesting we can do?"

"Such as …" The wizard arched a single eyebrow at her.

The witch snorted. "I don't know. Berry-picking, for instance?"

Abraxas thought for a minute, digging deep into his memories. "Actually, I think we can gather some raspberries. I remember gathering them with my Nana when I was a boy."

An hour later, they were walking down a shaded forest path. Hermione, with a big brown basket in her hand, was skipping a few steps ahead of Abraxas and thus affording him a very nice view of her pert derrière. The witch still preferred to wear his shirts and breeches, both of which were charmed to fit nicely on her figure. Though he could swear that they hadn't been quite that fitted a few days ago.

"Do you like your breeches on me?" Hermione abruptly halted and turned to him, forcing him to halt as well.

"Yes, very much so, why?"

She shrugged her shoulder. "Just asking," said the witch nonchalantly. She shot a quick glance at him, turned and continued her walk, swaying her hips seductively. Abraxas sped up and, in a few strides, covered the distance between them. He caught her narrow waist and propelled her into his arms, causing her to drop the basket.

For a moment, they both just stared at each other, listening to their pounding hearts and erratic breathing. "Hermione," the wizard managed to growl, pushing her firmly against a nearest tree. "I want to kiss you. Please, let me kiss you."

"Aha," she breathed, and, not waiting for him, she leaned up on the balls of her feet, wound her arms around his neck, and yanked him to her. The moment their lips met, the world around them ceased to exist. The blond wizard couldn't comprehend why he had waited for so long. He could have had her in his arms for so many days.

He kissed her with abandon, forcing her lips open and demanding access to every corner of her mouth. He swept his tongue along her teeth, caressing them, luring her tongue into his mouth, encouraging her to participate. His greedy hands found her shirt, and he pulled on it mercilessly, until he managed to free her shoulders from the frail fabric. There, he stopped to trace her little butterfly tattoo with his thumb. "My little butterfly," he whispered huskily. A heartbeat later, with a groan, he launched his mouth at it, biting into Hermione's fleshy shoulder.

"Ah," the witch moaned under his mouth and arched into him, aligning her alluring softness with his eager masculine hardness. Another strong pull of his hands, and a tearing sound signalled that the thin fabric had let go, leaving her breasts bare and free.

"Wait, I need to know," Hermione whispered frantically, pressing her fists into his chest, clearly battling against her own desire. "Do you have someone – a fiancé or something?"

"No, I don't," rasped Abraxas, drinking in her swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes. "You?"

"I don't know, I don't remember," she breathed with exasperation.

"Have you ever …" he trailed off, resting his forehead on her shoulder and licking her tattoo in a leisurely manner.

"Oh, Merlin, I am not sure. I think, I am not a virgin," she said, and suddenly cupped his protruding length. "Yup, I have definitely done it before." Her hand began to stroke him rhythmically through his breeches. "Have  _you_ ever done it?"

Abraxas tensed. "I … Agh, Hermione, oh." The wizard covered her hand with his and arrested her provocative strokes. "I have been taught, but I have never actually done it with someone I wanted. It's a tradition – the Malfoy heir should be able to please his lady. Ladies of the Manor are not supposed to fake their orgasms. Never," muttered the wizard, hiding his face in Hermione's curls.

Hermione clasped his face in her hands, kissed him firmly on the lips, and said, with a grin, "Mm, what a wicked family you have, Abraxas Malfoy."

Abraxas returned her kiss and carefully eased her on the soft moss. Kneading her breasts gently and enjoying the little whimpers of pleasure that his manoeuvres elicited from the little witch, he traced her jaw with the tip of his tongue, dipping it inside her ear and then going down her long and graceful neck to her perfectly-rounded breasts topped with dusty-pink nipples. Sucking and tugging on them, he made quick work of her breeches and pulled them down. Teasing her skin, he slowly dragged his mouth down to her belly-button, lingered there for a moment, and then continued further down. There, however, he paused, surprised by a sudden discovery. Instead of the expected undergarment, Hermione wore something pink, scanty, and probably completely impractical, but still glorious. In awe, Abraxas sat back on his heels and asked: "What is this?"

"It's my thong, silly. Knickers of the future." Hermione giggled huskily.

"Is there something on the back?" And the curious wizard turned the witch on her stomach. "Merlin," he whispered. The sight of her derrière clad only in a thin pink string that disappeared most naughtily between her luscious buttocks nearly undid him. With a quick non-verbal, he spelled himself naked, hurriedly but carefully rolled the pink garment down Hermione's creamy legs, and, with a feral growl, sank into her tight, wet, and oh-so-welcoming heat.

The witch only managed to let out a breathy "Oh," as he began to move within her, grasping her hips in order to keep her in place. Their moans and groans of shared pleasure filled the air, mingling with the sounds of the forest.

For a seemingly endless and extremely pleasurable moment, they moved in exquisitely choreographed harmony, drowning in the sheer perfection of their union. Alas, even the most perfect moment always, always had eventually to end. Feeling the nearness of his impending climax, Abraxas reached around, drew his palm down Hermione's stomach, and cupped her, pressing her tightly against his thrusts, as his fingers delved into her soft curls to stimulate her needy flesh. One light stroke against her most sensitive spot, and she fell apart. Hermione let out a long and helpless moan, sobbed "Abraxas!", and came. The blond wizard managed a few more shaky thrusts and spent himself inside her with a shout.

Before collapsing, Abraxas cradled the exhausted witch to him and rolled them both over, so that she was resting in his arms. As she played lazily with the blond curls on his chest, she whispered, "I don't know who taught you, but she taught you well. Are there any other tricks in your arsenal, Lord Malfoy?"

The wizard chuckled breathlessly and replied, "All my knowledge is at your disposal, my Lady."

"Perfect," murmured the witch. "Very much looking forward to it."

"You'd better be ready then." And he kissed her wild curls as one of his hands crept toward her thighs and the other found her breast.

They didn't get to pick raspberries. Instead, they Apparated back to the Manor, aiming directly at Abraxas' chamber.

Wrinkly, however, did pick raspberries, and Dotty made a delicious jam out of them. It was still warm when the elf served it to the young lovers with their tea in bed. To Abraxas' delight, Hermione apparently knew many ways to misuse the said jam terribly. The places where she managed to spread and then consume it, using her wicked tongue, forced him to call on Merlin more than once. Alas, it seemed that Merlin had decided to stay out of it.

It was well after midnight when they finally ran out of jam and energy. Hermione was already in deep slumber, cuddled cosily in Abraxas' arms. He felt happy, and he didn't want to think or analyse or worry about anything. He knew only one thing – the witch in his arms was his butterfly, his unexpected present from the future, and he wasn't going to let her go. Ever.

**Aftermath**

Hermione opened her eyes and stretched her aching muscles, humming appreciatively. Her movements made the silk bed sheets slide down from her shoulders, giving the morning sun an opportunity to warm her bare skin. For a while, she simply basked in an all-encompassing feeling of happiness. It was nice to be completely carefree, at least for a moment.

Soon, though, she had enough of motionlessness, and she stretched once again, yawned, and sat up, leaning against the mahogany headboard. She looked around and found Abraxas' chamber already back in its impeccably neat state.  _Hmm, and no traces of raspberry jam,_  chuckled Hermione to herself, as she continued her perusal. She liked his room – it had an air of masculinity about it, being warm and inviting at the same time. The amber-coloured stained glass on the windows gave everything that special, vintage appeal she always liked so much. It reminded her of Hogwarts.

_Hogwarts!_

Hermione's eyes widened in shock as millions of memories rushed through her head with the speed of the Orient Express, knocking the breath out of her in the process. In a matter of minutes, she remembered everything: Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, her parents, the war, the losses, the pain. Trembling violently and swallowing hot, bitter tears, she whispered, "Oh, God," and dropped her face into her palms.

The sound of the door being quietly opened forced her to look up. Abraxas, gorgeously dishevelled and clad in breeches and unbuttoned white shirt, stood on the threshold. "Good morning," drawled the blond wizard as he sauntered toward the bed, keeping his right arm hidden behind his back. After a few steps, he slowed down and held out a rose. "For my little butterfly," he said with a heart-melting smile, and locked his eyes on her.

Hermione sat still and silently stared at the rose in his fingers. It was a true beauty – fresh, delicate, with beads of morning dew still glistening on its quivering, violet petals. Slowly, she tore her eyes from the flower and focused them on the man who had managed to steal her heart in a mere week. In the diffused sunlight of the bedroom, his grey eyes seemed almost translucent to her. His blond hair was tangled and slightly damp from his morning walk, as were the blond curls on his chest. He was breathtakingly gorgeous, and Hermione's heart clenched painfully. Lost helplessly in his shimmering gaze, she whispered hoarsely, "Abraxas."

Noticing her tear-stricken face, he worriedly asked, "Hermione, what is it?", and hurried to her across the room. He was about to collide with the bed when Hermione suddenly began to speak. "My name is Hermione Jean Granger. I went to Hogwarts and was sorted into Gryffindor House. I am a Muggle-Born."

Abraxas froze, the rose fell from his fingers, and he rasped a shocked, "No!"

Closely watching his pale face, she was certain that she saw only remorse in his eyes. A terrifying feeling of loss began to gnaw at her poor heart. Hurt and angered by his reaction, the witch shouted, "Yes, Abraxas, you have brought a Mudblood to your bed! Your pure-blood prick is forever tainted now!" As a second wave of tears engulfed her, Hermione leaped from the bed, grabbed the first piece of clothing she saw, and fled, leaving the dumbstruck wizard standing in the middle of the room.

She ran through an unending labyrinth of corridors and was almost hysterical by the time she finally found a door. She paused in front of the heavily carved, oak monstrosity, just to throw on the garment she had managed to grasp before her escape. It turned out to be Abraxas' shirt from yesterday, and, as if it were deliberately taunting her, it still smelled of him.

The witch sighed, bit her lower lip, and stubbornly wore the shirt. When all the buttons had been fastened, she opened the enormous door and slipped outside. There, she just ran again, until, somehow, she ended up in front of the white gazebo where all this mess had started. She went inside, sat on the bench, threw her arms on a table, and wept.

**_Please review, my darlings._ **


	4. Ever After

**3\. Ever After**

**_Memories and Revelations_ **

She didn't know how many hours had passed, when two strong hands lifted her from the bench and she found herself crushed against a hard, muscled chest. "Why did you run off, you silly witch?" a soft baritone drawled in her ear, as the wizard manoeuvred her onto his lap.

"Abraxas," sobbed the witch.

"Shh, I am here now. Enough of these tears." He cradled her even closer to him and kissed her curls gently.

The witch sniffled one last time and raised her face, concentrating her red, puffy eyes on him. "Why are you here? Hadn't you heard me? I am a Mud-"

Abruptly, a finger was pressed to her mouth. "Stop … using … this … word," enunciated the wizard sternly, stressing each word.

Hermione, still defiant, asked, "Why?"

"Because I cannot tolerate this derogatory term. It is not who you are."

"And who am I, Abraxas? Who am I to you?" she asked, searching his eyes for clues.

A warm, genuine smile lit up the wizard's face, instantly melting the ice in her heart. He spoke softly, as his fingers lovingly fluttered over her face, caressing it with the lightest of touches. "You are the wittiest and the most beautiful Muggle-Born witch I've ever met." Abraxas leaned back a little, in order to afford himself a better view of her face, and suddenly asked, watching her intently, "Do you love me?"

Hermione's eyebrows flew up in surprise. A true answer was right there, in her heart, and yet she hesitated. "Abraxas, we've known each other only a week."

The wizard grimaced impatiently and snapped, "That is not what I asked. Do you love me, Hermione?"

Hermione thought for a moment, drew a sigh, and then breathed out, "Yes."

His soft but demanding lips caught hers in a desperate kiss as the last letter of "yes" left her mouth. "Marry me," he whispered against her lips, the moment they parted. "Hermione Jean Granger, I love you. Will you marry me?" Hermione nodded, and Abraxas uttered a low, guttural growl of triumph, the sound of which made Hermione's toes curl. "Mine, my butterfly, forever." Their mouths fused again in a delightfully long and deep kiss.

Still pressing her to him and kissing her curls, he said, "There is only one thing left." With that, he gently nudged her from his lap. When they were both on their feet, he fished a lacquered box from one of his pockets and placed it on the table. From another pocket, he extracted a familiar-looking Time-Turner and put it into the box. Making elaborate movements with his wand, he began to mutter an incantation. The moment he finished his muttering, the box slammed shut with a metallic click. He turned to Hermione, took her hand, and said, "We shall go now, my Lady. Your future in the past awaits."

The moment they stepped out of the gazebo, the wooden structure gradually became more and more translucent, until, to Hermione's astonishment, it disappeared altogether.

"What did you do?" she exclaimed.

"I just closed the loop, my darling. There is no going back now." And hand in hand they began their walk to the Manor.

"What about your parents?"

The wizard chuckled. "They will survive. Surprisingly, I am not the only Muggle-Born-loving Malfoy in the family. Apparently, my great-great-aunt was married to one as well. And the interesting part was that her father agreed to that marriage. Do you remember the lady in the portrait in your room? That's her, Lucinda Williams née Malfoy, Brutus' daughter. I just had a long talk with her, and she explained a few things to me. "

"Hmm, how very eye-opening."

"Alas," continued Abraxas, "Lucinda's story didn't have a happy ending. She died in childbirth. Actually, both Lucinda and her baby died. She was stubborn and foolish, and refused to stay in the Manor during her pregnancy. She went into labour prematurely and Tibald II, our family healer, didn't make it on time. Brutus never forgave Lucinda's husband for not being able to save his beloved daughter. I think that is where all the hostility to Muggle-Borns started."

Hermione sighed and sniffled. "How sad."

For a while they walked in silence, and Hermione thought about the peculiar turn her life had taken. It was peculiar, yes, but for the better, she was sure. Abraxas' strong arm found its way to her rump and gently squeezed it, interrupting her musings. The wizard pressed her to him and whispered in her ear, "Do you think we can reproduce those knickers of yours? I think they can bring millions to the Malfoy family vaults. We can make a revolution in the Wizarding lingerie-making. Hmm?"

Hermione giggled, kissed him in the corner of his mouth, and purred, "Well, I don't know about that. What I do know, however, is that, right now, I am not wearing any knickers at all."

The wizard chuckled, "Minx," swept the witch up into his arms, and hurriedly trotted to the Manor.

**_Malfoy and His Butterfly_ **

Abraxas didn't want to open his eyes. Today was his birthday and he wasn't happy about it. He was fifty. Fifty! He couldn't believe it. And thus, he lay in bed and sulked. Well, he wasn't actually sulking, because it didn't become him – Lord Malfoy was not supposed to sulk. He was just, let us say, going over the main events of his life. He simply wanted to remember.

_He married Hermione in August of nineteen twenty-six in a private ceremony that took place in their cherry orchard. Sure enough, just as he had predicted, his parents came round and even gave the young couple their blessing. He was their only son, after all._

_On the first of January, nineteen twenty-seven, Hermione managed to give him quite a fright by disappearing for the whole morning without any notice. Abraxas had already begun to panic, when she finally returned with a tiny infant in her arms. She didn't give him any explanations at all. She just said that the child was an orphan, his name was Tom, and he was going to be a wonderful brother for their little girl. And that's how Abraxas found out that they were expecting a child._

_Their little girl was born six months later on the tenth of June. They named her Gwendolyn. She was a true miracle, the first girl in the Malfoy family in three hundred years. Of course, just as Hermione had said, Tom and Gwen were extremely close, especially at Hogwarts. As an older brother, Tom guarded Gwen's every step. One of his friends, Raphael Lestrange, however, managed to find a way into her heart. She married him right after Hogwarts, and Abraxas cried as he walked her down the aisle._

_Tom himself fell in love a little bit later, when he was twenty-five. He found himself a green-eyed, red-headed Muggle-Born and married her after only two weeks of courting._

_As of today, the twenty-second of January, nineteen fifty-four, Abraxas had six grandchildren. Tom had been elected as Minister of Magic a year ago, which made Abraxas deliriously proud of his brilliant boy. And Gwen had become a well-known Potions Mistress with more than twenty patented potions to date. Yes, she loved potions just like her daddy._

_Hermione, his little butterfly, had been working in the Ministry as an Unspeakable for more than twenty years. He loved her today just as intensely and passionately as he had twenty-eight years ago. He couldn't breathe properly without her by his side. She was his life, his everything._

"Good morning." The teasing whisper tore Abraxas from his thoughts and memories. He felt the bed dip slightly as a silk cover was drawn away, exposing his bare skin to a morning draught. The next second, a gentle kiss was placed upon his shoulder and a deliciously soft and warm body covered his. He opened his eyes and was met with the most erotic sight. His gloriously nude wife, with her untamed mane curling wildly around her face, straddled his hips and looked at him with a wicked smile. Rubbing her heavy breasts against his rapidly warming skin and peppering his chest with light kisses, she purred into his ear, "Happy Birthday, my Lord."

Her dexterous fingers found him already half-erect, and she quickly brought him to a state of eager need. With a low rumble, he rolled them over in one fluid and powerful movement, effectively trapping Hermione beneath him. Placing himself between her luscious thighs, he drawled a bit breathlessly, "Good morning to you as well, my Lady. Shall I have my birthday present now?"

Hermione cupped his face and groaned impatiently, "Yes! Now! Please!"

Abraxas growled and plunged home.

…

Nine months later, Lucius Malfoy was born.

**_The end_ **

**_It was supposed to be a one shot with a lot of smut and a bit of substance. Haha! Please review, my darlings._ **

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